


Nature Teaches Beasts

by QuiveringSunset



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Angry Erik, Angst, Childhood Memories, Erik is a jerk, F/M, First Meetings, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutant Pride, Mutant Registration, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Slash, Science Experiments, Shaw Being a Manipulative Bastard, Social Commentary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-24 06:45:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1595465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuiveringSunset/pseuds/QuiveringSunset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nobody said anything at the time. He suspected they were too confused (too frightened) to really know what they saw. No one asked him about it, and really, they all have better things to think about. Everyone on that ship is running away from something, has some reason  to be afraid. </p>
<p>Erik's just a kid. He doesn't want to be the thing everyone is scared of.</p>
<p>-------</p>
<p>After Brian Xavier's 1936 paper details the discovery of the X-gene, paranoia and fear for the future of human kind have created a world where mutants are treated with prejudice in all aspects of life. Erik Lehnsherr, private attorney, has dedicated his career to helping defend mutants without the means to do so themselves. But behind his noble pursuit is a dark past, and in a world where power pulls the strings, the only thing that matters more than genes and money is blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

~X~

1962

It's a rainy Tuesday in June when Alex Summers is booked into the Manhattan Central jail. His record, when Erik reads it for the first time, is surprisingly short given the fanfare with which his assistant had thrown the young man's file onto his desk. There's a small footnote at the bottom of a seven year-old report that mentions an arrest for a brawl at school; some superfluous chicken scratch from a court-appointed counselor about _monitoring for the potential development of severe anger issues_ and _recommendations for medicinal intervention_ ; along with a photocopy of an unfilled prescription for antidepressants. Compared to the other files that Erik sees every day, it's not immediately apparent exactly what all the drama is about.

Summers, Alex; male, Caucasian, nineteen years old, blonde hair, blue eyes, five feet ten inches...

"Ah."

"Indeed," Hank sniffs. He taps his finger on the red-circled 'M' stamped over the corner of Summers' booking photo. "Unfortunately, his DNA was already on file from his prior run-in with the law. Back then they would sometimes take samples from minors without parental consent, though that wouldn't have really mattered since he was in foster care."

"Bastards."

"Indeed."

"Is he in our systems?" Erik asks, flipping through pages. Sometimes the abilities manifest compiled by public databases had more information than the private ones used by the government, which were dependant on the person having come into contact with law enforcement. "Do we have an idea what he can do?" He studies the photo. "Thank god whatever it is doesn't seem to be a physical manifestation," he says absently.

He realizes his mistake before Hank even starts shifting from foot to foot.

"Christ - I'm sorry, Hank."

The young man waves it off. "No, you're right," Hank says quietly. "It could be worse. At least I'm not hairy or...blue...or something."

Erik watches his assistant - his very _human_ looking assistant - as he adjusts his glasses and straightens his tie. His navy slacks are pressed, his hair neatly combed, gangly and thin, nearly the spitting image for the definition of "geek". There's an incongruence in there anyway, where appearances aren't always what they seem, and it has nothing to do with the ink stains on the breast pocket of Hank's wrinkled dress shirt.

His legal assistant may be young, but he is bright. Quite possibly the brightest seventeen year old that Erik has ever met. Hank has the intelligence for a job three times are hard as this; one that could make him a lot more money and wouldn't leave him stressed, tired, and cursing the world at the end of the day. Yet here he is, and he continues to flat-out refuse Erik's suggestions that he save himself the trouble and get another job that wouldn't eat up his evenings and leave him no free time. If Erik himself weren't so similar, he'd wonder just what the hell Hank was doing here.

Erik changes the subject and goes back to Summers' file. "It says here that he is being charged with public indecency and resisting arrest..." There aren't any additional notes to the sparse narrative in the officer's scene report. No mention of irregularities or oddities - just a brief account of how Summers was taken into custody along with another person around three in the morning following an anonymous 9-1-1 call, after which there was a scuffle with the cops who arrived on the scene.

"Do we know who this other person is?" Erik asks.

"Uh," Hank rifles through some of the papers that fell out of the file onto Erik's desk and comes up with a torn-out scrap of notebook paper. "The lady I spoke to at the clerk's desk said his name is Armando Munoz."

"Mutant?"

"Yep."

"That's not good."

"Nope."

Erik sighs, running a hand through his hair. It is at times like this that he finds it hardest to make the choice: does he accept the file for what it is - an opportunity to help a poor, teenage mutant who will otherwise have to rely on the courts to defend him; a chance to use his hard-won skills to try and tip the scales on an unbalanced system - or acknowledge the file for what it _represents_ : an order, one that he can't really refuse, that plays just right on the vulnerabilities of Erik's past to tempt him into action.

There isn't a time of day, it seems, since he accepted Sebastian Shaw's blood money to start his own firm that Erik doesn't considers the thoughtful deviance behind his benefactor's strategy. Shaw gives him just enough resources and leeway to make the decision to pursue a case (the hand-picked files are delivered by courier, curiously absent of anything other than the basic information), all while knowing that he will never turn it down. No matter how busy he is with other cases.

Erik looks around his office. He claims this small, cramped space as a minor victory. The seemingly endless supply of funds provided to represent Shaw's defendants could, conceivably, be used to upgrade the offices of Lehnsherr & Associates, if Erik would allow it.

He won't.

In this, at least, Erik has held his independence; the disjointed assortment of aluminum and stainless steel dumpster-dive and garage sale prizes that make up his furniture. The walls are full of corkboards and thumbtacks; calendars and presentation sheets; and the window at his back is almost fully obscured by a giant filing cabinet with a dent that keeps the bottom drawer from opening. It really is a glorified closet. Aesthetically, it looks like someone tried to match everything together in a semblance of a decorating theme, and then gave up when they realized the task was impossible.

Shaw's 'special' cases aside, Erik barely sees the surface of his desk anymore these days. Six months after the long awaited and highly controversial execution of sixteen year old domestic terrorist Pietro Maximoff, and a fresh wave of mutant-focused enforcement policies have prompted an increase in the number of mutants entering the criminal justice system. As part of their new policies, thanks in no small part to the passage of the Xavier-Kelly Act, the police are targeting traditional crime hot-spots with renewed fervor. Whether intentional or not (and Erik suspects they primarily _are_ ), these new sweeps mainly focus on New York's lower-class urban neighborhoods, of which mutants are a large percentage. More and more there are cases like Alex Summers popping up, and for every mutant arrested there are three fresh young prosecutors out for blood.

Erik hates the thought of having to chose the "best" cases to work when each one is really so deserving.

"Well," he huffs, and watches as the rain starts to earnestly pour outside his grimy fifteenth-floor window. From where he sits he can almost see the police station, tucked behind high stone walls that encase it like a medieval fortress, separating it from the rest of the city.

Months ago this view was different. Crowds of mutants (all different shapes, sizes, colors, _abilities_ ) lined up and down the street, blocking traffic, shouting and singing songs.

If he squints, Erik can just make out the remnants of signs from the one or two determined stragglers where they peek out of uncollected garbage cans. _Free Pietro! Mutant and Proud! Being Born is Not A Crime!_

"We should get going," Erik says. A flash of lightning lights the dim office, followed by a crash of thunder. "It's going to start getting bad soon."

Hank nods and sweeps out. Erik follows shortly with his umbrella, dons his coat and fedora and stuffs the Summers file into his briefcase.

But before he turns off the light, Erik hovers at the threshold with finger above the switch.

He spares a glance for his office...what his life has somehow become.

The files that are twice as thick as Summers' yet read like the same story; letters from the accused about how the justice system has fucked them over; letters from his clients' victims and their families telling Erik to go fuck himself; pages upon pages of lives (mutant lives like his, too much like his) boiled down to the policies of rich men. _Human_ men.

And finally, his eyes light upon the half-obscured picture of himself after getting his Bar results, a younger Erik with a carefree expression he hasn't seen in the mirror for years, and Sebastian Shaw, arm draped across Erik's shoulders, proud smile on his face.

Erik thinks about the young man in that photo. The boy he was. The man he became.

Another flare of lightening cuts across the photo, and Erik shivers.

He shakes his head and turns his thoughts to the contents of his briefcase; to Alex Summers, the young man he's about to see. About to _help._ At the end of the day, _that_ is what's important.

This last thought is enough to make him square his shoulders, take a deep breath and swallow down the anger that's always on the surface, stop it before it rises like bile in his throat, as he turns off the light and follows after Hank.

 

~X~

 

It happens like this.

In 1937 Erik arrives at Ellis Island via boat when he is twelve, one of many in a wave of children shoved onto cargo passenger ships and stowed away by their parents after the Revelation. The day's most distinguished minds in fields of genetics, biology, psychopathology, and neurobiology are all saying the same thing: the "mutant phenomena" brought to light by British scientist Brian Xavier presents a very real, very _present_ danger to the world.

On the heels of Revelation comes the questions that no one can answer. It will be years yet (decades) until science has advanced enough to truly understand the _homo superior._

Across the world there are voices who clamor for patience, who argue the necessity of more research and more time, but they are drowned by the outcry of panic. People begin to worry about being taken - parents, children, siblings - and those who are desperate to save their families from the uncertainty of an unknown future in their own homeland decide to send their most precious elsewhere.

America isn't the best place for a suspected mutant in the world post-Brian Xavier. Europe and Asia aren't any better.

Germany is worse.

When Erik comes ashore - thin, scrawny, and so full of righteous fury (and fear, at being shoved out, cast aside, _abandoned_ ) - he is taken to the office of the Port Inspector. It's the done thing to check the dogs for parasites, as one of his ship-mates put it.

_They'll check ya for fleas, don't let 'em know what else you got up your sleeve._

Erik has tenuous control at best of his abilities, and the horror stories of how mutants who test just shy on the side of being "too powerful" are euthanized make him sick with nerves. He's never (knowingly) met another mutant. He has no idea if what he can do - at this stage and with lots of concentration, floating small metal objects and occasionally warping the furniture if he has a bad dream - is 'powerful' or not.

Xavier reported that there are mutants who could level cities with the flick of a wrist; children who could control minds with a whisper of thought.

Surely a boy who floats loose change isn't a threat?

 

~X~

The entrance to the high-rise building that houses Lehnsherr & Associates, P.A. sits on 100 Street in the heart of New York City, a main thoroughfare that has a great volume of traffic congestion nearly all day due to the construction that's converted what is normally three lanes down to one. Erik gets to the office at seven every morning and leaves at the same time or later at night, so dealing with the commute isn't unexpected.

It's just after lunch now and the traffic, both foot and vehicle, is fairly bad. Hank doesn't even bother suggesting that they try and take a car, instead resigning himself with a sigh to follow behind Erik as he presses forward into the oncoming crowd.

Manhattan Central Booking is located in a shiny new brick and mortar addition to the police station, courtesy of the latest round of elections-driven anti-mutant private funding. It looks nothing like it did two years ago, before Pietro Maximoff used his ability of enhanced speed to murder twelve federal agents while they were escorting Cain Marko out of protective custody after he was cleared of all charges in the suspected murder of Pietro's twin sister, Wanda. The attack took a total of ten seconds, during which Pietro failed to accomplish the one thing he wanted to do above all else - kill the man who murdered his sister.

Later, during an interview from his cell on Death Row, Maximoff said his greatest regret was not knowing that Cain Marko was a mutant until the last second. He would have prepared better, he said, and spraying Cain's traitor-blood on the facility's walls would have been real justice.

It's no surprise to say that after Maximoff's attack, things changed.

Erik and Hank stop in front of the double bullet-proof doors and look up, giving themselves a moment to take it all in as they always do.

The outside walls are high, the fences un-scalable, and every available metallic surface is charged with enough electricity to power a small town.

Most mutants (most _people_ , really) have an ingrained unease about this building. Its purpose is spoken loudly, in rows and rows of detectors and psionic barriers; armed guards with neural implants that make them resistant to telepathy flank either side of the long conveyor belts where visitors stand to get scanned upon arrival. There are two lines, one for humans and one for mutants, and when Hank and Erik enter the building it's already second nature to head to the left instead of the right.

The guard posted at the mutant line waves them forward and accepts their IDs. Hank goes first, setting down his files on the conveyor belt and following with his umbrella, jacket, and shoes. He hesitates for a moment, as he usually does, when he gets to his socks. But like always, he eventually concedes. Because once he steps into the glass-encased protection booth - fitted with x-ray technology and ability-suppressant darts, designed to contain mutants should they try and use their powers - they're going to see everything anyway.

"Nice feet," the guard grunts. Then, "Next."

Erik steps forward. Unlike Hank, he has the benefit ( _convenience_ ) of looking normal. His government identification profile, like so many - too many, more than they could ever know - is inaccurate.

Perhaps when they wrote the provision in the Xavier-Kelly Act that requires a mutant's abilities to be disclosed on their ID, they should have followed the arrogance of their policy with the decisiveness of implementation. Rather, the task was delegated from the top-down, and really, at the end of the day there's no telling whether the people who are charged with carrying it out are mutant sympathizers or even mutants themselves. What a folly of human logic, Erik thinks, to expect that mutants would voluntarily commit themselves to identification, persecution, and eventual destruction.

It's not difficult for those who can to hide the true extent of their abilities. It's a bitter pill to swallow - _we shouldn't have to hide, not ever_ \- but not so bitter that it won't be done.

Malleability is a trait Erik adopted long ago.

When he closes his eyes, Erik feels the press of the magnets all around him; the tingle and spark of electrified metal that makes his toes curl. So much delicious energy practically _begging_ for him to reach out and grab; to twist his fingers and pull, shake, squeeze...

Tearing these walls down would be like child's play. He could crush everyone inside this building to dust.

Erik hands his card to the guard and offers a smile that shows too many teeth.

It says his name is Erik M. Lehnsherr and he's a minor ferrokinetic.

It's a lie.

 

~X~

The Port Inspector is a short, balding man with a face like a rat. He wears a dingy worker's uniform the same grey color as the walls of his office and what hair he has hangs in stringy black locks that leave flecks of white dandruff on his shoulders.

"What's your name, boy?"

"Max."

"We have too many Max's as it is," the Inspector sniffs. "Can't have too many of the same name or it gets harder to tell you all apart in the records." He looks utterly bored, shuffles some papers around on his desk and comes up with a small book. "Pick something else."

Erik doesn't _want_ to pick something else. His name is Max, just like his mother's name is Edie and his father's name is Jakob. His sister's name is Ruth, his aunt's name is Lucy, his uncle...his uncle is dead, but his name was...

"Choose something or we'll choose for you."

He remembers when he was little, his father would take him to the cemetery in Rottenberg where his uncle is buried and explain to him about how when he died they only had enough money for a ten year plot so they came as often as they could. His fingers traced the golden letters on the black marble and he thought of how the flowers were always fresh, no matter what time of year they came to visit. E-R-I-C-H.

"Erich," he says.

"Erik," the Inspector writes down. Then, "last name?"

"Eisenhardt."

This, he's keeping.

 

~X~

_..."It is the opinion of this researcher that, with few isolated exceptions, the abilities of those individuals with super-natural abilities (herein referred to as homo superior or in layman's terms, 'mutants') will prove, in time, to have a clear and unavoidable effect on the development of the human species"..._

_..."At present, our current strategies cannot overcome, or even appreciably reduce, the powerful nature of this new genetic material into the human population. As such, the consequences of the introduction of the here-to discovered "X-gene" are likely to be two-fold: one, the average human person will find themselves genetically and biologically inferior to their mutant neighbors and at greater risk for reduced special selection (i.e., "dying out") and two, that mutants will assert their genetic dominance over humans through standard aggressive behavior displays (i.e., anti-social behavior, ostricization, and outright violence)"..._

_..."[S]uch startling results are found again and again in controlled experiments"..._

_..."Further studies using a variety of "mutant" participants have continued to indicate that the implementation of a controlled treatment program can have an appreciable effect on the power- threshold/hostility dynamic observed in some program participants"..._

\- Excerpts from Brian F. Xavier's "A Case for Humanity: Problems and Prospects Following the Discovery of the X-gene" (1936)

 

~X~

"Now, _Erik_ ," says the Port Inspector, trailing spidery fingers down the pages of his record book. "Is there anything else you can think of that we might like to know? Hmm?"

Erik tries not to outwardly react, but his mind goes racing back. There was a storm at sea one night that caused all the beds to shift to one side of the ship's undercarriage. Erik woke up to the sound of screaming, held his eyes shut until the lights were on again, and when he opened them he saw that it wasn't screams at all. It was screeching - the sound of metal legs halting in their fast approach across the floor - and he was by himself in the corner where his cot was set, the twisted hunks of his bunkmates' beds in a half-circle around him.

His arm was outstretched, his fingers splayed towards a beautiful sound...

And it was still singing.

Nobody said anything at the time. He suspected they were too confused (too frightened) - to really know what they saw. No one asked him about it, and really, they all have better things to think about. Everyone on that ship is running away from something, has _some reason_ to be afraid.

Erik's just a kid. He doesn't want to be the thing everyone is scared of.

"We've heard an interesting tale from some of the others, you know," the Inspector says conversationally. "Kids have such active imaginations, and we're told so many things, with all these different languages and cultures. But for them all to have the _same_ story?" He snorts. "That's unusual."

"I..."

...don't know what you're talking about, don't want to talk about it, don't even _understand_ it...

"It's okay. I'm not actually going to take your word for it."

The Port Inspector gets up and comes around his desk to stand right beside Erik. The man takes his arm and pulls him to his feet, then half-drags Erik out the door and deposits him in another room.

After the dingy gray of the Inspector's office, the new room is like stepping into the sun. Everything is white, all white, with a large glass desk at the center surrounded by furnishings and fixtures that are painted the same shade. It feels clinical; antiseptic; medical.

Like this is the place where shadows go to die.

"Here you go, Miss Emma. I've brought the new kid for you."

The woman sitting at the desk blends in so completely with the decor that she only really becomes noticeable to Erik when she turns her head to glance at them. Her hair is bright blonde and styled in the fashion that Erik recalls from his mother's _Frauen-Warte_ 's, curling delicately at the high collar of her snow-colored dress.

She fixes Erik with a blue, unblinking stare.

"What's your name?" she asks.

"Erik Eyes-En-Heart. We had to give him a new one on account of the census reports," the Inspector says. "He's from some town in Germany - can't pronounce it worth a shit - but this new one shouldn't be too bad. I gave him a little flair for it too, you know how the Krauts do -"

_< What's your name?> _

Erik blinks. The question sounded like it was -

_< In your head?>_ A nearly imperceptible smile shifts the corner of Emma's mouth and her eyes flick over his shoulder. _< Not all of us are so boring, sugar>_

The Inspector keeps talking. "Of course, we have to remember that a large part of registration is..."

Erik opens his mouth, then closes it, and thinks. _< Max>_

_< You're from _ _Düsseldorf >_

_< Yes>_

_< By yourself>_

_<...Yes >_

_< What happened on the ship?>_

The images of that night come flying, unbidden, to the forefront of Erik's mind. He sees it all like it's happening now; the sight that met him when he woke up and found himself surrounded by the beds. What's more, this time, is that he tastes the shock; the wonder and fear that struck him deep inside when instinct took over and he listened to the call and realized that his body wasn't really his anymore:

It was the metal's.

He closes his eyes as that siren song starts up a tickle in the back of his head, the same sweet resonance, but this time there's a promise to it - a building crescendo that is leading to a peak - it's going to be so exciting when he reaches it, so exciting, so _much_...

Emma is still staring at him when he opens his eyes.

"Of course, Martin," she says suddenly, interrupting the Inspector mid-sentence. "Thank you. I've taken all of your suggestions into account and you are quite right about Erik. That little parlor trick on the ship was just a fluke. You really can't trust children to be reliable eye witnesses." Her gaze is hard. "He's just simply not powerful enough to send to the gas chamber. I think rehabilitation is definitely the most viable option."

"But -"

Erik waits for the Inspector's response, but none comes. He glances up and finds the man standing frozen, his eyes glazed over and a distant look on his face.

Emma hums, then says. "You're absolutely right. Forgive me for being so silly. His mutation is very weak. I agree, standard ferrokinetic classification is highly treatable. Your expertise is invaluable as always, Martin."

Erik watches as the Inspector (Martin) seems to stare off into space for another moment, and then suddenly he's back to himself, blinking like he's trying to get dust out of his eyes. He shakes his head minutely and says, "Should I take him to Doctor Shaw's office, then?"

"Yes, please," Emma says absently, already back to her original statue-like position. "It was lovely meeting you, Erik."

The Inspector grabs Erik's arm again and hefts him up. Before he's led out, Erik looks back at Emma one last time.

She winks.

 

\--------------------------

A/N: Research Notes!

1\. Manhattan Central Jail/100 Street - I literally just Googled it. I have no idea if it's right or not, so I'm claiming magical hand-wavy author-ship powers regarding all aspects of location description.

2\. Brian Xavier's research paper is loosely based on a 1974 article by Robert Martinson called "What Works? Questions and Answers About Prison Reform", in which he basically postulated that "nothing works" in rehabilitating criminal offenders. It is credited with debunking the idea that it is possible to rehabilitate prison inmates and, indeed, any criminal at all.

Skipping forward to today...the "Nothing Works" ideology basically shut down all research into non-prison responses to crime (yadda yadda 1970's Just Desserts policies = throw them in jail, they deserve it, yadda yadda 1980's Drug War policies, yadda yadda all the way to the 1990's when all of a sudden everyone said, wait, there's too many people in jail, maybe we should stop arresting so many people.)

And there is the entire history of American penology in one sentence...I think my professors would be proud.

3\. The _NS-Frauen-Warte_ was a 1940's Nazi magazine for women and featured a wide range of women-centered topics, like sewing (fun!), housewife activities, as well as a *smidge* of youth re-education and anti-Allied propaganda.

.........

Whelp, this is my first time entering the awesome wonderful world of XMFC fan fiction. I hope I've done it justice so far. Obviously I'm rewriting history quite a bit here, and I'll be moving people/places/things around a lot. Please let me know if you enjoyed it - comments and feedback are appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for Shaw being a manipulative creep

~X~

_"We didn't even know he was a mutant," the girl says. She looks appropriately scandalized; wholesome and proper with her school bag slung over her shoulder. Her eyes are wide as she explains, "I just thought he looked strange because it was a fashion thing, you know? People dress weird and say they're mutants all the time, but nobody really_ means _it." -_

_The screen cuts to another woman, much older and more weathered, this one holding a small child in her arms as she stares angrily into the camera. "What I want to know is how he got let into the system in the first place! Aren't we, as parents, supposed to be notified? I don't want a mutant like that in the same school as my child!"_ -

_The screen shows a still-frame image of the yearbook photo of a young man with silver hair. The picture fades to negative, as a male voice-over says, "Mutant registration in New York at an all time low. Every day mutants slip through the cracks. The dangers are all around us - Do you know who they are? Support enhanced restrictions for mutant registration in public schools by voting Yes on Bill 430."_

\- "Are Your Children Safe?" television campaign advertisement (1959)  

~X~

Erik's first impression upon meeting Alex Summers is that he is strikingly familiar to how Erik himself was only a decade ago. How long past, it seems, and yet he remembers it like it was yesterday. If he had any pictures of himself he'd no doubt find the same scowl; his palms would sport the same crescent-shaped welts from digging nails; the veins of his arms would be corded similarly tense. Summers shows the same face to anyone who enters his sight, be it Hank or Erik or the police officer who escorts them to the jail's holding cells: an expression so carefully devoid of any emotion that the only thing left is a rage so intense it's fled beyond his control.

Erik knows from experience that this type of rage is infinitely dangerous, especially in someone whose abilities are yet unknown.

They stand in front of the holding cell - "pod" might be a better way to describe it, actually - the last in a series of back-to-back plastic and steel suppression-enhanced cubes. There are high walls between cells so the prisoners cannot talk (taunt, bite, hurt) one another, and each one features a window with a one-way latch facing the outside. When they approach, the only indication Erik sees that Summers has noticed them is the slight tensing of his shoulders. He continues facing down, though - sandy blond head hunched forward with his elbows on his knees.

"Here he is, " the officer says, holding out a clipboard so Erik can sign over custody. "His hearing's in two weeks, bond is $15,000. We don't usually let violent muties go ORed, but since you're dropping the dime I figure it's your problem if he splits town."

Erik hums. "Thanks," he says dryly. He gives the signed forms back over to the officer. Hank is standing slightly behind Erik with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his dress pants, shifting from foot to foot in his standby nervous gesture. (It's actually an improvement - when he first started working for Erik, Hank wouldn't even come inside the holding area.)

Something about Hank's nervous tension must set Alex off. He stands up as far as his ankle chains will allow and slams his hand on the plexi window. "What the fuck are you looking at?"

Hank jumps. The officer rolls his eyes. Erik arches an eyebrow and stares at the hand pressed against the glass until it slowly slides down, and he meets Alex's gaze straight-on. In a second so quick it's gone, the boy's hardened expression flickers and Erik has a clear glimpse what's really going on underneath all that seething energy.

Fear.

"Charming," says the officer sarcastically. He stuffs his pen back in his pocket and flicks a half-salute before marching away, leaving Erik and Hank standing outside the cell door.

Erik takes off his coat and hat and hands them to Hank, then begins to unbutton his cuffs and roll up his sleeves.

"Hank -" he starts.

"Keep watch?"

"Yes please."

The cell door sticks a little bit when Erik tries to open it, but he gives a tiny nudge with his power (just enough, nothing too flashy that would look suspicious to the security cameras hanging overhead) and it glides open easily. Summers tenses but doesn't move, and he looks defiantly up at Erik like a dog backed into a corner trying to stand its ground.

A few tense minutes pass, during which a deafening silence fills the small cell. Outside, Erik can hear the sounds of yelling, some far-off and some too close, as well as the faint murmuring whimpers of Hank talking to himself.

Finally, Summers cracks. "What do you want?"

Erik grins. They always start the same. Sometimes he feels like he could have these introductory conversations in his sleep. "I'm sorry, didn't you forget something? Why don't we get it out of the way now, and you tell me you 'don't care who I am', you 'don't need my help', and to go fuck myself?"

Summers blinks, then scowls. "Look _asshole_ -"

"Alright, alright," Erik holds his hands up. "My name is Erik Lehnsherr. I'm your attorney."

Summers spends an exaggerated moment visibly sizing Erik up, during which Erik has to work to hide his amusement at the alpha-male behavior display (because at the end of the day he really is a mean bastard, and scared little boys acting tough has always made him laugh.)

"You're my public defender?" Summers snorts. "No fucking thanks, man."

"Would you rather have some tired, overworked, piss-poor mother fucker who doesn't give two shits about you and won't lose a wink of sleep when you get sent up to Rikers just because you're a mutant? Because that's what you'll get if I walk out of here."

That's not entirely true. Most of that description can apply to Erik himself after all, and even if he wanted to (he doesn't, despite Summers doing everything he can to change that) Erik couldn't walk out of here. Shaw wants this one defended. He handed him so prettily to Erik on platter with all the trimmings that it may as well have been gift-wrapped.

He just has to figure out why.

 

~X~

Doctor Shaw's office is nothing like any room Erik has ever been in his young life, from his parents' home to the ship to either the Port Inspector's or Emma's office before it. Gone are the habitual empty walls, the stark furniture and clinical monotone color scheme. Everything is dark wood and rich colors, and there are several paintings with golden trim lining the walls. Shaw's office is an assortment of wealth so abundant that it nearly almost gives Erik whiplash when he's thrown over the threshold.

In the corner sits a monstrous desk - rich, dark mahogany with intricate Louis XIV marquetry adorning the sides - and the man sitting at it looks up when they enter.

"The lady Frost says to bring the kid to you, Doc," the Port Inspector says, shoving Erik into the room.

"Wonderful!" Doctor Shaw says, closing his book. "Thank you, Martin."

The Inspector nods and shuts he door behind him, leaving Erik standing alone.

Erik's first thought is that this man looks too young to be a doctor. His hands look too fragile for the tasks of mending bones back together and pressing wounds. The doctors in Düsseldorf were always older, highly trained with apprentices, and the one who examined all the passengers on the ship had wired hair and a grizzled beard to match the scars he'd won as an army medic. In comparison to these men, Doctor Shaw looks...delicate. Vulpine, almost, with his horn rimmed glasses and swept back hair, lightly curled at the nape of his neck over a crisp navy suit.

Suddenly being in his presence makes Erik hyper aware of all of his imperfections, even more pronounced here than under the harsh brightness of Emma's office. The bagginess of his too-big shirt feels heavy on his shoulders and his cuts and bruises seem more pronounced, as does the dirt clinging to his skin and caked under his nails.

Doctor Shaw is watching Erik squirm with too-bright eyes.

"Erik," he begins, and slowly unfolds his hands in a welcoming gesture. "It's so good to see you."

Erik blinks.

"Are you hungry?" the Doctor asks. "I understand the food they serve on board those passenger ships is quite dreadful. I have some chocolate, I think, or perhaps some tea, or coffee?"

The Doctor begins shifting papers around on his desk. There are an assortment of books, Erik notices; thick texts with glossy covers. The words to the titles look complicated even with Erik's rudimentary knowledge of English, and he can't quite make them out. The precise imagery of the anatomical drawings adorning their covers makes him uneasy, though.

He thinks back to Emma's office, of standing before her and having her enter his mind. What a strange thing, he recalls, and he didn't even feel it at all. She's a mutant, he thinks (he _knows_ \- she has to be, because what she did is something right out of the Märchen his mother used to read to him at bedtime.) Maybe this Doctor is one too. He could be reading Erik's mind right now, for all he knows.

Erik tries to 'think' something at the Doctor like he did at Emma. He thinks about how he doesn't want to be here, that the Port Inspector is ugly and stupid and Emma and the Doctor aren't any better; that he's been in America all of one day and he _hates_ it; how he wants to go home and at the same time doesn't because his parents made him leave; how he's tired and hungry and yet he vows that he will never, _ever_ , eat or sleep again - not around these people, who treat him like cattle and dirt just because he's _different_ -

The Doctor grows suddenly still.

Erik sucks in a breath. He must have heard - everything, all of it, oh no, he's going to be angry, _damn it Max_ -

But then the man just laughs.

"Oh, Erik," The Doctor says indulgently. "You really are something special."

He smiles at Erik's confused look and taps his pen against his temple. "You're trying to communicate with me telepathically. Emma said you were a quick learner.

"It doesn't work that way all the time, I'm afraid. You see, I'm not a telepath like the lovely Miss Frost, so you'll have to use the regular mouth-and-tongue way to talk to me." He winks. "But you shouldn't be disappointed. The extraordinary thing about mutants is that there are so many fantastic things they can do. Every single one of them is different."

"There...are more?" Erik asks. He hurriedly tamps down on the reckless feeling of hope that starts building inside him at the thought. Others out there who are different. Who are like him.

"More than you can guess, my boy."

Erik absorbs this for a long moment before he speaks. It seems...inconceivable.

"I don't understand."

"I know," The Doctor says. "And that's why I am so grateful you're here." He picks up a book from the desk and holds it up for Erik to see the picture on the cover of various symbols and the American flag.

"You see Erik, I've been given a very special task. There is a lot of misinformation about mutants out there: who they are, what they can do. Humans think that mutants will attack them without provocation and they think that treatment doesn't work, when it can, with the right tools. Personalization is the key - behavior modifications; therapy. In my time here, I've shown how even the most dangerous mutant can become more than just an angry, violent animal, with the right amount of handling."

Erik feels his irritation rising at the comparison of mutants to animals (it's just genetic, we're human too, we're _more_ than that, we're _better_ than that), and then, almost immediately, he feels sick, because...oh god...

He's right.

Erik is _so_ angry, has been for so long.

Is this why his parents made him leave? Because they knew that he would become dangerous one day? There are so many things he doesn't understand about his ability, so much he cannot control. Just look at the ship. He could have really hurt someone. They must have known, his parents; how could they not?

And if that's true...then he can't really blame them for sending him away.

The overwhelming dejection he feels must be showing on his face, because the Doctor makes a small tutting sound.

"It's my job as a doctor to help people," he says. He comes around from behind his desk and stands before Erik. This close Erik is surprised, in that strange (childish, naive) way he always is in the presence of an adult, that the man is much taller than him.

Doctor Shaw smiles and lays a hand gently on Erik's shoulder.

"I want to help you, Erik."

 

~X~

"Whatever," Summers says, dismissive. "You think I don't know how this works? This isn't my first time in a cell. I've been in the system before. I'm a mutant and an orphan, I don't have shit for rights, and now you come in here with your fancy suit and tell me that you're going to make everything okay?" Summers stands up and advances on Erik, head tilted up and eyes fiery as he stares. "Fuck. You."

Erik feels the words ghost over his face.  His mouth twitches, that shark-tooth smile starting to leak through, and then very slowly he lifts his right hand from his side and extends it palm up. Summers' eyes flick down and his brows crease in confusion, one second before Erik splays his fingers outward and Summers goes flying back, hitting the bench by the backs of his knees.

" _What the_ -"

Erik reaches his awareness out for the length of the steel chain bolted to the floor, the cuffs snapped around Summers' ankles. He lets the feel of metal float through him like a coiling snake, humming and vibrating sweetly in his bones, before he traces it to where the links are welded together. With a flick of his wrist, the chain pops, hitting the floor with a clang.

Summers stares down at his former bindings in open shock.

"I didn't say that everything is going to be okay," Erik says. "I would never say that, because it's a lie. I make it a point not to lie to my clients unless I have to, and seeing as you already seem to know how against you the odds are, we can spare ourselves the trouble."

He does understand the temptation, though - to latch on to any impression of help, no matter who it is standing in front of you.

Summers, it seems, has given up trying to look unaffected by the whole exchange. He's probably  exhausted; the adrenaline from whatever events transpired last night followed by being arrested this morning taking its toll. He looks more like a little boy under the bright lights, all blonde hair and resigned blue eyes.

"I...I don't know what to do."

Erik nods. "I know."

He motions for Summers to take a seat on the bench while Erik retrieves a small notebook from his slack's pocket.

Time to start the question and answer game.  

"You were arrested for public indecency and resisting arrest," Erik says, recalling Hank's notes. "I think I can already guess how the second part played out, given your winning personality, but why don't you tell me about the first bit."

"There's nothing to tell."

Erik shakes his head. "See, that right there - I thought we understood one another, Alex. At least do me the courtesy of not lying to my fucking face."

Summers blanches.

"It wasn't a big deal," he says hotly. "We went to a party last night over at the Hellfire Club - some kind of celebration thing for that Commissioner who just got re-elected or whatever. Lots of suits, champagne, fancy shit like that. That place is supposed to be mutant-friendly, you know? People were using their powers all over the place and nobody said anything, but then there was a fight and I...lost control."

"Were you drinking?"

"....Yes."

"How much?"

"Two or three beers, but nothing too -"

"But just enough that you lost control of your powers in a room full of strangers."

Summers' cheeks flush.  

"Right," Erik says. He sketches another note, then asks. "I assume 'we' is yourself and Armando Munoz?"

"Yeah. Last night - well, this morning, when they came and got us - we tried to get out through the back door but the Club was locked down. Everyone was freaking out, pushing people around, powers going off everywhere. The cops shot at us with suppression darts but they missed me and they don't work on Darwin - I mean, Armando."

Erik considers Summers' story. The Hellfire Club is a notorious paradox - sort of a running joke in New York. The club is owned by Bob Hendry, alleged member of the extremely violent anti-mutant Humanist organization. Hendry is careful not to have direct affiliations with what has essentially (reluctantly) been declared by the government to be a terrorist organization, yet the ties are there on paper, particularly last year's contributions Hendry made to ad campaigns denouncing Pietro Maximoff as a dangerous criminal deviant.

However, despite its owner's political leanings, the club simultaneously sports the curious reputation for having the best mutant 'entertainment' in New York. Always at night, of course, and there's always the unspoken rule of silence for both those working at the club and those who attend. The last thing any upstanding businessman or politician needs is a media story about how they spend their nights jerking off to mutant strippers, and the last thing the unfortunate mutants who work there need is to end up dead in a gutter.

Summers said there was a party being held for a recently elected Commissioner...that must mean Jason Wyngarde won. He's the only Humanist candidate that Erik recalls running, and it was considered a foregone conclusion that he'd win. That there was a celebration party at Hellfire for a Humanist poster-child isn't unusual (they're all hypocrites at the end of the day), and neither is his account that powers were being used. After all, it's all part of the show. What is strange is why Alex Summers - nineteen years old, mutant, ex-offender - was there.

"What were you doing at the Hellfire Club in the first place?" Erik asks. "You don't strike me as much of a dancer, and when Hendry isn't spending his money on anti-mutant campaigns he does tours for the anti-gay movement, so I can't imagine he'd add you to his back-room repertoire."

The look Summers give Erik could curdle milk, but he seems to have taken Erik's lesson about getting in other people's face to heart.

"Look," Summers says slowly. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and yanks his hand through his hair. "My little brother is still in foster, okay? Do you know how messed up those places are? I applied for guardianship over him when I turned eighteen but they said no because I've got a record and don't have a job. I've known Darwin since we were ten. He said he knew someone at the Club who would interview me for a job. Not _that_ kind of job," he adds quickly. "It was for mutants specifically, no questions asked, and it paid a shit ton of money. And they would put me on the Club's taxes as a 'consultant' so I could have an employment record. Seemed like a no-brainer."

'No kidding', Erik refrains from adding. He's in no position to throw stones - not when he's tied by even worse strings to a job as a lackey for a man he despises.

Instead, he asks, "who were you supposed to talk to at Hellfire for this 'job?"

"Some guy they call 'Chuck'. He never showed up. We waited around, got some drinks, but then...well."

"Yeah," Erik sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Yeah..."

 

~X~

"I think you're going to really enjoy it here, Erik," the Doctor says as he leads Erik out of his office through wide double doors into the blistering sunshine. He can hear the seagulls and sloshing waves at the port, the noisy chatter of working men and the grind of heavy machinery as ships unload their cargo. The air smells like dead fish and salt, but Erik barely notices.

"Our program is very specialized," the Doctor is explaining. "We only select certain individuals with unique talents - those whose abilities allow for maximum malleability. Unfortunately, not all mutants who arrive meet our requirements."

They quickly cross the shipyard and come to stand before a large building - the tallest and most impressive for miles that Erik can see. And it's not just large in his mind. He feels it too; all the iron and steel that holds the spikes to the ground and twists together to form the beams and supports for the building's structure. It calls out to him the way the bunks did in his dream, only this time it's so much _more_. Like now that he's heard that song he's hearing it everywhere. It makes him feel better than he has in quite a long time. It makes him feel...peaceful.

When he glances at Doctor Shaw he sees the man giving him a funny sort of smile. It's a look of fondness, Erik realizes, when the man bows and gestures for Erik to go on inside.

Erik hesitates for a moment before he pulls the door open.

It's a house; or more like a series of small rooms - a tenement project modeled in the same fashions of wealth and opulence as the Doctor's office. A large rug sits just inside, ready to guide Erik's way through the hall, past oriental-style vases and burnished copper fixtures. His mouth falls open in shock.

Doctor Shaw comes up behind him and claps him on the shoulder. Its sudden weight makes Erik flinch, but his mind is too busy taking in the details (the promise) of the view before him. It seems like too much; too foreign; too fancy...but at the same time, much like Doctor Shaw's hand on his shoulder, it feels like it could become familiar. Erik could be okay here, he thinks. He could get better and go home.

He could be happy.

The Doctor squeezes his shoulder. "Welcome to the Caspartina Treatment Facility, Erik," he says.

"You're not alone any longer."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Research Notes!
> 
> Some explanation regarding a few terms for those who may not be familiar with the US court system:
> 
> 1\. "ORed" or "R.O.R" is court-room slang for "Released on your Own Recognizance". Basically, a judge allows a criminal defendant pre-trial freedom before their day in court with the understanding that they will show up for their hearing.
> 
> 2\. Bond - a pledge of money that promises that the defendant will appear in the specified criminal hearing. It can be signed by a professional surety holder (Erik), the accused themselves (if Alex had $15,000), or friends/family. The amount of bail is generally determined in light of the seriousness of the offense.
> 
> \---> Sub-note: (In the real world...) when Justin Bieber got arrested for resisting arrest, his bond was $2,500. Alex's bond is $15,000 because he's a mutant.  
> 3\. The television advertisement at the beginning (and many of the similar ads I'll do) are inspired by the infamous "Revolving Door" ad that ran during the 1988 presidential campaign. 
> 
> Also,
> 
> "Märchen" -- straight off Wikipedia: the German term for "wonder tale".
> 
> A million thank you's to those who have reviewed and left kudos! I only know if I'm doing a good job if you tell me, so please keep it up!


	3. Chapter 3

~X~

_Since its enactment in 1960, the Xavier-Kelly Public Safety and Mutant Registration Act (a.k.a. The "Xavier-Kelly Act") has allowed the Human Rights Division of the U.S. Department of Justice to investigate all possible humans rights violations perpetrated by persons possessing the X-gene, particularly those violations that occur in publically operated institutions, and to bring consequent legal action against state or local governments who fail to comply with the Act's registration standards._

\- Footnote from "How We Won the War: The Autobiography of Senator Robert Kelly" (published January 1961)

 

~X~

"So..." Summers starts. "What now?" What now indeed, Erik thinks. First thing is go back to the office and have Hank set Summers up in one of the nearby hotels for the next two weeks - somewhere close where Erik can keep an eye on him. He doesn't particularly think the boy will try to run away - not with the added mix of his brother to the dynamic. The last thing he needs on his record is absconding.

Sebastian really picked a good one, Erik muses; Summers won't put up much of a fight. He'll go along with whatever Erik tells him to do...whatever Erik is supposed to tell him to do. Other than defending Alex at his court appearance, instructions have yet to be forthcoming. "We get you out of here and keep you from getting yourself arrested again until your hearing," Erik says.

He taps on the cell window and opens the door. Hank is standing several feet down the hall and he blinks owlishly at Summers when they emerge. He does this with all of Erik's charges, even though they have yet to meet one who can physically (without powers, and even then, Erik isn't sure) injure Hank. The teen is tall and quite strong, but he's afraid of his own shadow. It's an endearing quality in a lot of ways - the bookish, nerdy boy with glasses; everyone wants to give him a break. But Erik isn't naive. He knows that even the seemingly innocent ones like Hank have their inner demons, and he imagines that Hank has already made peace with his; sorted them out logically and into color-coded spreadsheets, and summarily locked them up and thrown away the key.

The unfortunate thing that Erik also knows is that one day something will happen to flip the switch. He just hopes that he's there to help Hank put the pieces back together when it does.

Though at the same time...something tells him it will be his fault. "I've got the usual room booked at the Marriott across from the office," Hank says. "They, uh, charged us double for an unknown 'damage fee'."

Many businesses do that, these days. Before the Xavier-Kelly Act, most places were more underhanded in their anti-mutant policies (strict booking limits, neighborhood and economic restrictions), but now that registration is mandatory, they don't bother to hide it at all. Stories about their CEOs contributing funds to anti-mutant groups don't even make the news anymore. Now - if you're a mutant - you pretty much expect to pay heavily for the convenience of a hotel in the city.

"Whatever," Erik says. "Not like it's our money anyway."

The...convenient...thing (Erik hesitates to call it _good_ , because anything associated with the man cannot be called that) about Sebastian is that he gives all the juice to go with the squeeze, including a pre-paid charge account for any case expenses. Erik has no idea how much is in the account and he doesn't care. His card has never not worked, no matter what the charge, and that's all that matters.

"Yeah, okay, well then we're ready to go." Hank turns to look at Summers. "Um, follow me I guess," he says awkwardly.

Erik walks behind Summers as they make their way out of the holding area, partly to keep an eye on him and partly to give himself a moment to collect his thoughts. Therefore, he is in a prime viewing spot to see Summers' reaction as they pass by one of the heavily enhanced containment cells. Unlike the regular cells, these ones are completely see-through, with the ability-suppression formula usually found in the police tranquilizer guns being pumped through air vents in the ceiling. Theoretically, they're designed to contain the most volatile mutant offenders (they were implemented with the poignant example of a mutant made of fire being subdued when nothing else would work). In practice, however, Erik has never seen them do anything other can cause pain (he remembers a mutant girl with wings...how they'd slowly shrunken down until there was nothing left on her back but bones, and how she screamed so loudly that Erik could hear her all the way in the lobby...)

Inside the cell there is the hunched figure of a broad-shouldered African American teen sitting on the floor with his knees drawn up to his chest. Summers stops so suddenly that Erik nearly crashes into him.

"Darwin!"

Summers makes to touch the cell (start pounding on it, more likely) and Erik stops him just in time by grabbing his hand in mid-air.

"What. Are. You. _Doing_?" he hisses.

"Get the fuck off of me!" Summers tries to yank his hand back, but Erik's grip is firm.

"If you touch that cell, you're going to send every cop running over here, and they are far less forgiving with people inside this building than they are outside of it." He looks over Summers' shoulder at Darwin, who doesn't seem to have noticed them right in front of his face. He must be tranquilized pretty good, Erik thinks.  

"You don't understand," Summers is saying. He sounds so plaintive, so unlike the hardened youth he was trying to be not just minutes ago. "Look - they've done something to him! Mando! Mando!" The tug to Erik's hold is growing more desperate. "You have to help him!"

"Why?" Erik says coldly. "He'll be just fine on his own."

(I'm not here for him. I don't care about him. I _can't_ care about him.)

"You don't understand!"

Erik pulls back and looks Summers dead in the eye.

"I understand better than you think."      

 

~X~

Erik is given the task of taking notes while Emma interviews potential new participants for the Doctor's program. 'Interviews' isn't quite the best way to describe what Emma does, which is to sit at her desk and stare, quite unnervingly, at whichever person the Port Inspector decides to bring before her. The ships are still arriving regularly almost every two weeks, and the ratio of humans to mutants is about the same: most of the passengers are regular immigrants, capitalizing on the easy access to America, some are refugees from Spain on escape from Franco's forces, and the rest are mutants, the majority of which sport a small to moderate range of abilities. Very few of them meet the level of power (the 'treatment threshold') that Doctor Shaw is looking for. Those who do are sent to the Doctor's office and assigned duties accordingly. The rest are euthanized.

A ship arrived in port the day before, and there has been a steady trickle of potential candidates throughout the morning. The Port Inspector is still as unsavory as ever, and Erik finds that his nails scrape against his notepad every time the man offers some bumbling explanation of what this next person can do, how he changed their name, how he thinks they're "pretty powerful" but he isn't sure since all these "muties seem the same to him".

Emma indulges him with the patience of a saint, but even Erik can eventually tell her annoyance is getting peaked when she blinks and lets a short breath escape through her nose.

"Thank you, Martin," she says, as sweetly dismissive as ever. "Please show Miss Maximoff in."

The Port Inspector complies and drags a young girl in by her sleeve, depositing her in front of Emma's desk.

Erik stares.

This girl is... Beautiful.

Her eyes are so big and brown that Erik immediately thinks of the deer who would visit his mother's garden during the spring; how they would stare, unblinking, and then run away through the woods, graceful and delicate like dancers. The girl looks at Emma in the same shocked way, takes her lower lip in her teeth as she brushes a strand of dark hair nervously behind her ear. She's wearing standard garb for those traveling by ship: dirty coveralls and a too-big shirt that hangs in rags off her slight frame. She catches Erik's gaze.

He feels his cheeks flush and looks back to his notes.

In the ensuing silence, Emma spends what Erik thinks to be an unnecessarily long time shuffling things on her desk. She only has a few bits of paper and some pens, and he can't help the feeling that she's doing it deliberately.

Eventually, she speaks. "Do you speak English, sugar?"

The girl nods.

"Good." Then, "Erik. Why don't you do the interview this time?"

Erik jerks. "W- what?"

He can feel her amusement, like bells tinkling inside his head, even as her expression remains outwardly the same.

"You've taken such wonderful notes these past few weeks. I think you're ready to take on some more responsibility, don't you?"

He hasn't been subtle, he knows, in his restlessness. His exploring the Facility; his short, jilted conversations with his house-mates; his impatience during the sessions with Doctor Shaw...They know that he's become bored. He hasn't been able to move anything larger than a small coin since he arrived; hasn't felt the call of metal since the night on the ship. It's frustrating, especially because the pressure he's feeling is all his own. The Doctor always tells him he's done well, but Erik reads disappointment into the once-fond half-smiles that seem to follow every meeting.

Erik grips his paper tighter, and nods.

Emma whisks herself up and out of the room like a breeze, and there feels to be a definite chill left in her wake as Erik tries (and fails) not to stare at the girl.

He wonders if he should move to Emma's desk. He can imagine himself sitting there - too small to properly fit, toes brushing the floor as he balances his elbows on the top - but he can't seem to make his legs work.

Think of the usual questions, he tells himself.

"Uh," he clears his throat. "What's your name?"

Those large doe-eyes suck him in.

"Magda Maximoff."

_Magda_. Erik's fingers are shaking as he writes. "How old are you?"

"Thirteen."

I'm almost thirteen too, Erik wants to burst, then: don't be stupid.

"Where are you from?"

"Romania. Craiova."

_Zigeuner_ , Erik's mind whispers, and immediately hates how he instinctively recoils. Before he left Germany the government restrictions against Gypsies hadn't yet arrived in Erik's town, but he'd heard of them, and he imagines that he can still hear the anger in his father's voice when he talked of how they'd eventually come; the staunch protest that they were _Jewish_ , not Roma; not Christian, not Muslim. It's a strong feeling in him, still, but Erik makes himself put it away, far away. The prejudices of his homeland (his _human_ homeland) don't have any bearing here.

"Alright."

Now he's supposed to find out what she can do. Usually Emma doesn't even need to ask the question out loud. He assumes that she finds it out like she did his - by reading his mind.

But Erik can't read Magda's mind, so he tries to think of a way to ask the question as delicately as he can.

Before he has a chance, Magda asks, "Your name is Erik?"

"Yes." The voice that says that's not his name is getting more faint with every day spent at the Facility. Doctor Shaw says that accepting his new identity is important for his treatment.

"And you're a..." she hesitates. "A mutant?"

The ' _too'_ is unspoken. Erik nods.

Magda takes a small step forward, approaching Emma's desk. There's five feet, five small feet, separating them now. She seems to be getting smaller the closer she gets and Erik feels awkward, like if he hunches any more in upon himself he can disappear into the plastic chair he's sitting in.

She's wearing a small cross on a chain around her neck, Erik realizes. It's barely visible under her oversized shirt, but it had glinted under the lights when she moved.

On a whim (and he doesn't know why he does it - maybe he's going crazy, but he hasn't felt the urge to do anything like this in weeks, months, since _before_ ) Erik feels for the chain with his power. Magda gasps as it snakes outward from the collar of her shirt, reaching her hand up to feel it sliding between her fingers like liquid.

She laughs, delighted. "That's amazing!"

Erik has to make himself let the chain go before he does something else (and that's the strange thing - he feels like he _could_ do something else; he could do anything he wanted and it would be no trouble at all.)

"Do you want to see what I can do?" she asks.

"Yes."

In a second so quick that Erik wonders if he's imagined it, Magda has gone from standing before Emma's desk to his side and then back again, twirling a pen between her fingers. He looks down to his lap and finds his fingers still held in a gripped position, but now around empty air.

"That's amazing," he echoes. He feels elated. This is fantastic, so much better than anything he had ever imagined. Sure, at the Facility he's seen other mutants display their powers (Emma's the most, but with her it's so casual it's like breathing), yet with them it's always surrounded by an air of despair; of sadness. Magda is wonderful and radiant, a child that speaks to Erik's heart the way only another child can.

"Thanks," she says, taking big gulping breaths like she's run a marathon.

Erik watches her face take on a hesitant expression, like she's awaiting further judgment, and when none comes she offers him a wide smile.

It's only when hers gets impossibly wider that he realizes he's smiling too.

 

~X~

"I know he's your friend, but you acting like an idiot isn't going to help anything."

Erik has managed to convince Summers (through a mixture of not-so-subtle threats and by half-dragging him out of the building by the metal in his clothing) to leave things well enough alone for the time being. They're sitting in the conference room on the ground floor of the building where Erik's office is located. None of the other tenants like this conference room: it's too dingy, with outdated aluminum furniture and dented folding chairs, along with the lovely view of a brick wall with what's got to be a decade's worth of bird shit caked in the grooves. In the few years that Erik's been in this building he's only ever seen it used as storage.

He likes it though, for obvious reasons.

Hank left to go get them some Chinese takeout from down the street (his suggestion, not Erik's). His assistant is thoughtful like that. Erik would have forgotten about food until later tonight, and probably only then when he realized the annoying groaning sound he kept hearing was coming from his stomach.

He has times - bright, shining moments of clarity - when he decides that he should start paying more attention to these kind of things: like when was the last time he shaved; when was the last time he went for a run; about how the last time he went and bought a suit he realized he'd gone down another size. But then, inevitably, something else will grab his focus (another court ruling, another dead human, another arrested mutant offender) and he loses interest.

Erik taps his pen on the table. "After your two weeks are up and you have your hearing, you can do whatever you want. Obviously, I'd advise you to stay as far away from the Hellfire Club as you can, but I won't waste my breath trying to convince you."

Summer's snorts. "Whatever."

He goes back to staring down at his hands where they're folded, affected casually, on the table.

They sit in silence while Erik thinks about the case. Usually the connection between Shaw and his clients is obvious - the lackeys who got popped as part of Sebastian's latest round of extortion kicks, the registration-absconders who get picked up halfway to Canada, the treatment facility escapees - but Summers doesn't seem to have any of these connections. He seems like the perfect example of someone who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

It's a habit Erik has, ever since he can remember, to twirl his pen between his fingers while he thinks. Nervous energy, and the flow of air around the spinning metal is somewhat calming.

He must be doing it now, because Summers' shifts forward in his seat.

"So...metal power, huh?"

Erik doesn't respond. He keeps spinning the pen, thinking. The only reason Summers was there is because he was brought by his friend, for a job that sounds too good to be true and promises to be off the record. _That_ has Sebastian's M.O. written all over it. Only, Erik can't believe he'd be getting desperate enough to fill his ranks using untested teenagers, let alone start using the Hellfire Club as a recruiting ground.

"Don't you want to know what mine is?"

The pen stops spinning.

"Do you want to tell me?"

"What the hell kind of answer is that?"

"The kind that says I don't give a shit about what you can do so long as you didn't use it to kill anybody." Erik stares at Summers. "I'm sure you're used to having people fall all over themselves trying to figure out how to ask you about your power without upsetting your delicate sensibilities." He sets the pen down and flicks his finger, sending it vaulting across the table. "I'm not a cop, or your guidance counselor, and to me your power is only as important as your lungs converting air into oxygen."

Summers is looking like Erik just kicked his puppy (or whatever passes for an equivalent look that a kid like Summers can have).

"If you start thinking about your power as something abnormal, you turn it into something that can be used against you. What would happen to your life, right now, if you woke up tomorrow without it? You still wouldn't be in school; you still wouldn't have a job. Your power isn't the thing that makes you different from everyone else." He levels Summers with an intense look. "But it is what makes you better. You're not confessing to a crime. Don't use it as a bargaining chip."

After a beat, he says, "Besides, I already know what you can do. It's in your file."

"Then you know what I can do is dangerous," Summers insists. "You know that my parents gave me up because of it." His hands twist on the table, knuckles white. "That I got sent to a treatment facility and they did all these tests on me but nothing worked. That it only happens when I'm upset, or angry, and that I can't control it, no matter how hard I try, it just happens and then everyone is..." He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Erik can see memories playing behind his eyelids, and not for the first time during these kinds of conversations (so many, too many to count) is glad that he isn't able to read their minds.

"I hate it," Summers concludes softly.

Erik observes the emotional turmoil of the young man sitting across from him: the slump of his shoulders; the despair in his eyes; the pleading underneath...

And finds that he has nothing to say.

 

~X~

Erik escorts Magda to her quarters in the Caspartina Treatment Facility, and is simultaneously pleased and terrified to discover that she's been given the room directly across from his.

"Wow," she whispers, hanging on the edge of the door frame like it might suck her in without.

"Yeah," Erik agrees. He remembers feeling that way too at first, like it was walking into a dream, or the scene of a movie. Sometimes Doctor Shaw lets them watch films in the projection room if everyone does well in their sessions. Last week it was _My Man Godfrey_. Standing here in the doorway with his arms hanging at his sides like heavy rods, watching Magda flit on excited feet across the polished floors of her new room, Erik gets a glimpse himself as William Powell, attending to the care of the dark-haired beauty Carole Lombard. He feels out of sorts, off his game, like this girl is one step ahead of him even though he's the one on familiar ground.

"Are all the rooms like this?" She runs her hands over the crisp blue-white sheets of the bed. "So fancy?"

"Doctor Shaw says that it's important for patients to have a place to call their own," Erik says. He hesitates to say 'like home' because nothing will ever be 'home' for him again. He has a feeling that Magda feels the same. "After your sessions, if you do well, you can get credits to use in the Commissary. I bought this just the other day." He pulls out a small pewter toy soldier. He hopes to get the entire set some day.

"What's he like?"

"Who? Doctor Shaw?" Erik isn't immediately sure how to answer the question. "He's..." (polite, friendly, almost too friendly, almost too kind...but not mean, not cruel, not...). "Not like the people on the ships," he settles for.

Magda nods and gingerly sits down on the edge of the bed. Erik hovers anxiously in the doorway.

"What about the other one?" she asks eventually. "The...slimy...one."

"The Inspector?" Erik shakes his head. "He helps Miss Frost sort out the mutants on the ship. He isn't part of the Facility."

"Good. " She sounds relieved.

Something dark begins to twist itself around in Erik's chest at the sound. The figurine in his pocket is starting to feel like it's getting heavy, and the scrape of his thumbnail  across its surface rings like pounding in his ears. Magda is looking at him with an expression of such gentle sweetness that he's overcome with an overwhelming combination of emotions that he's never had before. A heady recklessness; almost like a determination to fight, but against what he isn't sure.

He clears his throat. "Well, my room is right across from yours, so if you, uh, need anything..."

She nods.

"Erik?"

Magda smiles at him.

"I'm glad we're going to be friends."

"Me too."

Erik finds it hard to look away from her as he leaves the room, and therefore doesn't see Doctor Shaw standing just outside the door until he nearly collides with the man's chest. The Doctor stops him with a well-timed hand on his shoulder.

He gives Erik one of his usual smiles: open and happy, like getting to see Erik is the highlight of his day.

"How is our new guest settling in?" he asks.

"Um, good, I think," Erik says. He wants to move but his feet feel rooted to the spot. "I think she was nervous but she's feeling better now, since she's going to get help, and..."

Erik isn't sure what makes him say it. Maybe he's tapping into that dark feeling, but in a moment of gusto he looks right up into the Doctor's face, past those too-round glasses and into his eyes.

"She doesn't like Martin," he says. "I don't think he should come around here unless he has to."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Yes. I...her treatment - Magda's treatment - might be better if she's comfortable, and he makes her...not comfortable."

"I see."

The Doctor takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. The weight of his expression seems to say that he's thinking something very serious, and Erik just begins to wonder if he's gone too far when the Doctor smiles again.

"I appreciate you telling me this, Erik. I know that wasn't easy for you to do." Doctor Shaw says. He let his hand brush down Erik's shoulder and gives his arm an encouraging squeeze.

"I trust you to do what's right."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Research Notes!
> 
> 1\. Magda Maximoff - I know, I know...let's count the ways in which I've changed things from canon. The most important changes I've made to her character are to have her a) be a mutant and b) be from Romania. I didn't want her to be from Germany (like in the comics), but I wanted to keep the spirit of her ethnicity intact.
> 
> \-- This goes for Alex too, but I'm keeping with what's been popular in the fandom (which I personally like) and having Scott be his younger brother and them having been in foster care.
> 
> 2\. "Zigeuner" is the German word for Gypsy. It's derived from a Greek root meaning "untouchable".
> 
> 3\. My Man Godfrey is a 1936 comedy-drama starring Carole Lombard and William Powell. IMDb movie description is "a scatterbrained socialite hires a vagrant as a family butler" which, personally, I don't think does it justice. If you're curious, you can watch it in full on YouTube.


End file.
